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Things (ours) and stuff (mine).
Jan. 13th, 2009 05:10 pmThe bare naked tree got boxed up last night and sent to its cellar-dwelling home this morning.
Unfortunately, there were casualties.
As the coffin-sized box wended its way through the kitchen, I tried to navigate a tight corner between a large table in the center of the room (our equivalent of an island) and the wooden hutch along the wall backing up to the cellar stairs. There's a bar stool which tucks under that table- it was one of the selling points of the house that we got to keep the stools! that came with a full wet bar in the cellar! which we've never used! and which catches crap (figurative and feline) like nobody's business!- and I thought for a nanosecond about pushing it out of the way for that extra bit of clearance.
My reflexes need more than nanoseconds, though, and in a flash, the box whipsawed into the hutch, taking with it the one fragile piece which fell off the top shelf, the one piece on that whole collection that I probably care the most about. "Vase" may be closest to it in terms of description, but it's really just a funky, obliquely-shaped little thing in brownish-zebra stripes.
It's no antique, and probably of no great financial value, but we bought it on our honeymoon from a shop in England, and it was one of the fonder talismans (talismen?) of that joyful time of our life. It bought the farm once before, shattering less spectacularly from a lower altitude, and Eleanor lovingly glued it back together after I'd essentially given up on it. She was there when it happened this time, and thinks she can rebuild it again, but in hindsight, I'm even more upset about how I reacted in those few seconds after hearing the shattering sound:
I flipped. Not literally (although I did unceremoniously shove the tree down the stairs, and it almost did), but all kinds of raw emotions came out of me: about how clumsy I was, and how stupid I was for letting that piece sit up there unprotected, and how I almost knocked it over a few days ago and almost moved the stool out of the way and yadda yadda woulda coulda shoulda.
Eleanor got vewwwy qwiet as I was hunting the wabbits of my subconscious. I calmed down quickly, but I wish I knew why it hit me so strongly. We've knocked over, and knocked around, things of far greater value, and generally don't give a shit. Two winters ago, we managed to crash our vehicles into each other, leaving nasty paint marks on the side of Eleanor's truck and a still-there dent in the left front quarter panel of my car. Other than the stray remark about it from a passing acquaintance, we notice them barely and care even less. We remember the circumstances of that acquisition, as well: Biggsy, the last cat we lost, was failing and Eleanor was taking him for his final vet visit. She was nervous, and could care less about the location or condition of the cars at that point. Nor could I, even now.
The memories of our honeymoon voyage are far more important, and apparently more lasting, than the physical swag we'd managed to retain from it. I just wish my deep-down emotion machine understood that as well as my high-level cerebrum and superego do.
----
On the brighter side, Tasha seems to be doing better today. It's by no means a permanent condition, as she can get up to a virtual gallop in her finest moments, and in every other respect she seems herself.
Unfortunately, there were casualties.
As the coffin-sized box wended its way through the kitchen, I tried to navigate a tight corner between a large table in the center of the room (our equivalent of an island) and the wooden hutch along the wall backing up to the cellar stairs. There's a bar stool which tucks under that table- it was one of the selling points of the house that we got to keep the stools! that came with a full wet bar in the cellar! which we've never used! and which catches crap (figurative and feline) like nobody's business!- and I thought for a nanosecond about pushing it out of the way for that extra bit of clearance.
My reflexes need more than nanoseconds, though, and in a flash, the box whipsawed into the hutch, taking with it the one fragile piece which fell off the top shelf, the one piece on that whole collection that I probably care the most about. "Vase" may be closest to it in terms of description, but it's really just a funky, obliquely-shaped little thing in brownish-zebra stripes.
It's no antique, and probably of no great financial value, but we bought it on our honeymoon from a shop in England, and it was one of the fonder talismans (talismen?) of that joyful time of our life. It bought the farm once before, shattering less spectacularly from a lower altitude, and Eleanor lovingly glued it back together after I'd essentially given up on it. She was there when it happened this time, and thinks she can rebuild it again, but in hindsight, I'm even more upset about how I reacted in those few seconds after hearing the shattering sound:
I flipped. Not literally (although I did unceremoniously shove the tree down the stairs, and it almost did), but all kinds of raw emotions came out of me: about how clumsy I was, and how stupid I was for letting that piece sit up there unprotected, and how I almost knocked it over a few days ago and almost moved the stool out of the way and yadda yadda woulda coulda shoulda.
Eleanor got vewwwy qwiet as I was hunting the wabbits of my subconscious. I calmed down quickly, but I wish I knew why it hit me so strongly. We've knocked over, and knocked around, things of far greater value, and generally don't give a shit. Two winters ago, we managed to crash our vehicles into each other, leaving nasty paint marks on the side of Eleanor's truck and a still-there dent in the left front quarter panel of my car. Other than the stray remark about it from a passing acquaintance, we notice them barely and care even less. We remember the circumstances of that acquisition, as well: Biggsy, the last cat we lost, was failing and Eleanor was taking him for his final vet visit. She was nervous, and could care less about the location or condition of the cars at that point. Nor could I, even now.
The memories of our honeymoon voyage are far more important, and apparently more lasting, than the physical swag we'd managed to retain from it. I just wish my deep-down emotion machine understood that as well as my high-level cerebrum and superego do.
----
On the brighter side, Tasha seems to be doing better today. It's by no means a permanent condition, as she can get up to a virtual gallop in her finest moments, and in every other respect she seems herself.